


Nothing Left To Lose

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: The first time Porthos meets his reclusive neighbour, the circumstances aren't exactly ideal...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hsg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hsg/gifts).



> I'm sorry this is taking forever, and I hope I've done your prompt justice. Happy birthday (:

Forgoing the lift in favour of the stairs and the additional warm-up they provided, Porthos already had his mind focused, mentally prepared for the physical activity he was about to embark upon.

Consequently, it took him a few seconds to realise what it was about the woman turning down the next flight ahead of him that was out of place.

What gave him pause was that he didn’t recognise her as someone who lived in the building, or any of the frequent visitors. But it wasn’t her unfamiliarity that had him instantly concerned. It was the sight of what looked like blood smeared across the front and sleeve of her otherwise fawn-coloured coat.

For a second he considered following her, making sure she was alright, but there was something in the way she was walking—hurried but with an air of composed calm and not at all like somebody carrying an injury—that left him suspicious.

And then he noticed that the door to apartment 3A was ajar.

He had never before seen that particular door open, despite passing it every day, and had wondered on more than one occasion whether anyone really resided behind it.

It was curiosity as much as concern that took him to the door, telling himself he would do the neighbourly thing and take a quick peek to make sure everything was okay before maybe going after the woman to check on her. Porthos wasn’t the type to pry into other people’s business, but neither was he the kind of guy who could just walk on by, not when he could potentially help in some way. He had experienced far too much of that first hand, and a slight delay before starting his ritual daily run would do him no harm, after all.

His mind was still on the woman—wondering if he was doing the right thing in pausing here before following her, and hoping he would be able to catch her up—but what he saw when he stuck his head inside had his priorities instantly shifting.

The man standing a few feet into the room would only have been notable for his being naked but for a towel tucked around his waist were it not that the towel was steadily growing darker the with blood that was seeping through the fingers of the hand clamped to a ragged wound just below his ribcage.

Definitely not what he had been expecting to find.

Quickly shaking off his shock, Porthos was by the guy’s side when his knees buckled, catching him and lowering him gently to the ground. To his surprise, the injured man fought against his hold, struggling with the little strength he still possessed, gasping between tightly clenched teeth.

“Get away from me.” The anger in the words was tempered by the pain underlying them but still palpable. And maybe not surprising considering he had ostensibly just been attacked.

“Hey, hey.” Porthos tried to sound calm, reassuring, tried to stop the man moving about and doing himself any more damage. “I’m tryin’ to help.”

“Don’t need…your help.” His assertion lost much of its weight gasped as it was over a wave of agony. Porthos would have laughed at the mulish insistence if the situation had been any less grave. As it was, he fumbled his phone from the holder strapped to his arm, heart in his mouth as he dialled emergency.

“Yeah, you do,” he argued back, no nonsense. “So stop bein’ a prat and stay still.”

There was another token struggle before the man gave in and obeyed. It may have been because of Porthos’s authoritative tone, or just that he was rapidly losing energy. The latter seemed most likely considering the way he sagged against Porthos’s side. It did nothing to stem the flow of blood, however.

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief as a voice in his ear calmly asked what his emergency was.

“I need an ambulance.” He jabbed the phone to loudspeaker and placed it on the floor, giving the address as he pulled the steadily weakening man into his lap to both hold him still and place his own hand over the gash. He fought back panic as more blood welled up, coating his hand in seconds, concentrated on the steady voice from his phone. Prompted, he related what little information he had. “I think he’s been stabbed.”

After reassuring him that an ambulance was on the way, the operator advised him to keep pressure on the wound, use something as a compress, perhaps a towel. Porthos eyed the man’s scant covering and almost laughed. Almost. Deciding to allow him to retain what remained of his dignity, Porthos instead pulled off his own training top, pressed that to the wound.

A soft grunt was the only response, just before the bloke’s head lolled worryingly against Porthos’s stomach.

“No, no, no, you hafta stay awake.” Porthos brushed a fringe of damp hair aside and sea green eyes blinked up at him, heavy lidded, then started to close again. “No, don’t you dare!”

Porthos gently jostled him, desperate to keep him awake. He was rewarded with another brief glimpse of those eyes before a violent shiver wracked the body he held against him.

“Cold.”

Porthos knew that probably had more to do with the blood loss and shock than the temperature, but he held him a little tighter anyway, forcing levity into his voice when he spoke.

“What d’you expect, you go paradin’ around half naked?”

That might have been a twitch at the corner of his mouth, or maybe Porthos was just imagining it. Wishful thinking. Whichever it was, it was gone a heartbeat later as another shudder claimed him, this time as he struggled to draw in a breath. Porthos’s heart leapt into his throat, and it took a few seconds to convince himself he was really hearing the shrill tone of a siren.

He silently implored them to hurry.

A hand scrabbled at the floorboards, seeking an anchor, and Porthos grasped hold of it, clinging on as though sheer force of will could keep the man alive. He felt a weak squeeze in response, interrupted by another stuttered gasp for air.

He could have sworn there was an apology in the eyes that locked onto his in the moments before they slid shut once more, the hand in his going limp.

“No!”

The echo of Porthos’s cry was swallowed by the sound of booted feet thundering along the hallway beyond the open door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos being Athos, there is reference to possible suicidal thoughts.

The twitch of a hand was the first indication that the man lying on the hospital bed was beginning to come round. The man Porthos had been keeping vigil over these past long hours.

With Herculean effort, his eyes slowly blinked open, took a moment to focus, and a wary gaze swept the room before landing on Porthos and narrowing.

Porthos happily suffered the suspicious scrutiny. He had feared he’d never see those eyes again.

Dry lips parted, but whatever the guy had been going to say was lost to a fit of coughing that was itself cut short by a gasp of pain. Porthos grabbed the beaker of water beside the bed, held it out, straw helpfully pointed toward his mouth, and received only a glare for his kind offer of aid. Until need won out over disdain.

He drank, offered Porthos a small, grudging nod of gratitude, then settled back wearily, as if even that small effort had drained his energy. An attempt to push himself upright had him grimacing, grunting in poorly concealed discomfort. Porthos leapt to his feet and hooked an arm around his shoulders to help, plumping up the pillow a little before returning to his chair.

That inscrutable gaze was back on him. Porthos smiled, unfazed.

“Who are you?” Despite the water, his voice was still hoarse, throat raw from the endotracheal tube.

“Porthos.” He teamed his introduction with a bright grin. “The guy who saved your life?”

A beat of silence. Porthos assumed the guy was searching his memory, trying to remember exactly what had happened to land him in hospital.

“Hmn.”

Porthos’s smile didn’t falter. It was probably still all a confusing muddle that would take a while to settle into any kind of coherent recollection. “The words you’re looking for are thank you,” he prompted jovially.

“I do not yet know whether I am grateful or not.”

That made his smile slip, and the man looked away before Porthos could judge if he was joking. Somehow, he didn’t think so. There was an air of melancholy about him, perceivable even behind that cold, aloof exterior, that spoke of a troubled soul.

He clearly had no desire to expand on his cryptic comment, ignoring Porthos in favour of fingering the bandage taped over his freshly stitched wound. Rather than make things any more awkward, Porthos followed the change of direction.

“It was pretty bad, but it coulda been worse.”

An eyebrow quirked. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“It’s my layman’s interpretation of the surgeon’s professional opinion.” This time Porthos was certain he caught a flash of amusement, crinkles briefly appearing at the corners of his eyes. That was better. “Do you remember what happened?”

A thoughtful frown replaced the almost-smile. “I remember a woman.”

“Yeah, I saw her.” Cold fingers ran along Porthos’s spine at the memory. He had already given a statement to the police, and they had gone to check out the CCTV while waiting for their victim to wake up. No doubt they’d return soon. “What is she, scorned girlfriend?”

He gave a snort that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Not likely.” Porthos told himself not to read too much into a comment that could mean anything. “I assume she’s a fan.”

“A fan?” Porthos wondered if he should recognise the bloke from something, but if he was an actor Porthos had never encountered him on stage, nor seen him on TV or in a movie. He was convinced he’d recall that voice, if nothing else.

After a full minute watching Porthos struggle, the guy took pity on him. “I’m a writer.”

“Oh, wow.” Porthos was off the hook. Also, he was pretty impressed. Up to a point. “You in the habit of inviting random fans to your flat?”

“Of course not.” He looked appalled at the prospect. “I’ve no idea how she got in.” Then his eyes narrowed again, mistrust returning. “Or, for that matter, how you did.”

“We’re neighbours! I live on the floor above you.” Maybe he could be forgiven for not recognising Porthos; he obviously kept himself shut away for reasons Porthos couldn’t fathom. “I was heading out for a run and saw her, covered in blood, makin’ a dash for the stairs. She left your door open.”

Porthos was relieved when the suspicion lifted, his tale believed.

“Left your cape at home, did you?”

A moment of confusion, then Porthos barked a laugh. “Yeah. Can’t have everybody knowing my secret identity.” He looked down at the hospital hoodie he’d been loaned by a nurse, his own ruined. “Usually wear me pants on the outside, too.”

He received another of those crinkly-eyed almost-smiles and wasn’t ashamed to admit they were fast becoming one of his favourite things.

“Y’know, it’s funny,” Porthos said, struck by the need to fill in more gaps. “I’ve seen you all but naked—” not to mention had his lifeblood running through his fingers— “but I still don’t know your name.”

The smile fled and his eyes shuttered and Porthos kicked himself. The question had been innocent enough, but perhaps he’d taken one liberty too many. The guy clearly valued his privacy. He was about to backtrack and insist there was no need to answer when he was surprised again.

“Athos.”

Porthos grinned, delighted to have been granted even this small measure of trust. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly, Athos.” On impulse, before he had chance to properly think about what he was doing, he placed a hand on Athos’s where it lay on the bed. He was a physical person; it just seemed like a natural thing to do.

Athos flinched, but didn’t pull away from the unexpected contact. He stared at their joined hands for a few silent seconds, expression unreadable, before lifting his gaze back to Porthos’s face.

“Why _are_ you here?”

Porthos tried not to feel disheartened at the cold tone. Failed miserably. He couldn’t tell if the question stemmed from a return of that earlier suspicion or genuine bafflement.

“Wanted to know you were okay, didn’t I?”

“Well, now you know.”

Porthos knew a dismissal when he heard one. His heart sank. “Right. I’ll leave you to it then.” Swallowing his disappointment, he got to his feet. Despite the frosty reception he’d received, he found himself reluctant to leave. For reasons it was probably best not to analyse. “Hope you get better soon, yeah?”

He had the door open when Athos’s voice behind him made him pause, halfway out.

“Porthos?”

He looked back at the infuriating man in the bed, unsure what to expect but hopeful.

“Thank you.”

Porthos beamed, inordinately happy. He must have made some kind of impression after all.

“Any time.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“How the hell did you get in here?”_

_The woman standing in Athos’s bedroom smiled, all teeth and unnerving intensity. Athos clutched the towel around his waist a little tighter, feeling horribly exposed and extremely bemused upon finding this intruder lying in wait for him._

_“Why, you invited me, of course!”_

_“I did no such thing.” Even as he said it, Athos was wondering. Did she look vaguely familiar? Exactly how much had he had to drink last night? But no. Even had he been completely plastered he wouldn’t have done something as astoundingly ridiculous as invite this woman to his home._

_“Get out.”_

_As far as Athos was concerned, his command held no room for argument or misinterpretation, yet the blasted woman seemed in no hurry to comply. She pouted, her displeasure obvious._

_“No,” she decided. “I only just got here.”_

_Which returned Athos to his first question: how the hell_ had _she gotten in? Even had she somehow slipped past the building’s security, his damn door had been locked. Hadn’t it? He was almost certain he had checked._

_He briefly contemplated, and quickly dismissed, the option of manhandling her out of the place. The inevitable assault charge would likely cause a headache worse than his hangover. Instead, he marched from the bedroom, across the open plan living area, and wrenched open the door, hoping she would take the hint. Unfortunately, she only followed him half way, stopping beside the sofa, an unhappy frown fixed firmly in place._

_“I thought you’d be more of a gentleman.”_

_“Whatever gave you that idea?” He was becoming more irritable, his patience waning, and he desperately wanted this woman gone. “I want you to leave now.”_

_“Oh, now I don’t want that at all.” To Athos’s chagrin, she settled onto the sofa, looking disturbingly like she was planning on making herself very much at home. There was something about the way she gazed coolly across at him that was eerily unsettling, a hint at hidden intentions that Athos would rather not discover._

_Athos scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, leaving it in disarray. It was rapidly becoming clear that his visitor had no intention of leaving any time soon, not without being helped along._

_He was going to have to forcibly eject her, consequences be damned._

_Grasping her by the elbow, gently but firmly, he urged her to her feet. She rose, but Athos’s small victory was short-lived for a split second later she was plastered against him, her free arm winding around his neck, locking them together. Before Athos had chance to react, her lips were pressed hard against his in a parody of a kiss and what the hell was happening?_

_Whatever it was, Athos needed it to stop._

_Jerking backward, he unhooked himself and remained at arm’s length as he propelled the woman toward the door, ignoring her attempts to shake her arm free as she realised what was happening, her eyes wild and desperate as she spluttered indignantly all the way to the threshold._

_“No! You can’t do this! Not to_ me _!” She finally yanked free from Athos’s hold and rounded on him, levelling him with the full force of her inexplicable fury. Athos stood his ground, adamant she would not slip past him and back inside._

_Leaving himself directly in harm’s way._

_Quick as a cobra striking its prey, the woman reached into the folds of her coat, and Athos caught the flash of a blade mere seconds before she lunged for him. Disbelief was all he felt for a moment as his vision narrowed to the sight of full lips twisting into a satisfied smile, then fire bloomed hot in his stomach, tendrils of flame licking up into his chest, and the lights began to dim._

A loud banging jolted Athos back to the present.

It took a minute for his heart to stop hammering, for reality to reassert itself and memory to fade, but his alarm quickly subsided. And was promptly replaced by irritation. He wondered how long it take whomever was knocking at his door to realise they were being ignored and leave.

Too long, it seemed.

After a further three minutes of incessant, insistent rapping, answering the damn thing began to seem the lesser of two evils. At least this visitor, unlike his last, had the decency to knock.

He was not in the least surprised to find it was Porthos attempting to erode his door with his knuckles, for who else could it have been? Athos greeted him with a scowl.

“What do you want?”

Unperturbed, Porthos swept inside. No doubt predicting Athos would slam the door in his face if he stayed put.

“I rang the hospital to ask how you were doin’, and they said you’d discharged yourself.”

It was disbelief rather than accusation that coloured the statement, and Athos saw no reason to respond. Porthos could quite clearly see it was true. Resigning himself to the company, Athos closed the door and returned to his chair, gingerly lowering himself back down.

“You sure that was a good idea?”

He obviously hadn’t disguised his wince as well as he’d thought. And despite his reluctance to invite a more profound relationship than that between vaguely acquainted neighbours, perhaps Porthos deserved something of an explanation. He _had_ saved his life, after all.

“I couldn’t stand being poked and prodded any longer.”

Porthos gave a nod, understanding his decision even if he couldn’t endorse it. Their brief acquaintance had clearly given him enough insight into Athos’s quirks that he wasn’t surprised in the slightest to find he’d escaped back to seclusion at the first opportunity.

Athos wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or concerned.

Predominantly, however, he didn’t want the complication of yet another person becoming tainted by the curse he was certain he must be afflicted with. His relationships only ever led to misery.

Falling back upon his tactic of driving unwanted attention away with brusque discourtesy, Athos made a point of turning his attention away and picked up the tumbler from the low table beside him, enjoying the smooth heat of the brandy despite the weight of the gaze he could still feel upon him.

“Should you be drinking that?”

Athos sighed, feigning an irritation he didn’t truly feel. There was concern in Porthos’s voice rather than the expected judgment, and while Athos had no desire to be the recipient of either, it was impossible to condemn the genuine care so obvious in the man’s warm eyes.

“I believe we have already established that you are not a doctor.”

“Nah.” Porthos’s smile remained undented by Athos’s taciturn demeanour. “Just a lowly theatrical agent and part time knight in shining armor.”

Despite his resolution, Athos found himself replacing his drink back on the table, fighting the smile that was twitching at his lips. Annoyed with himself, he glowered at his guest despite knowing by now that it would likely have no effect whatsoever.

He was right. Porthos merely took it as an invitation to make himself at home, not even trying to hide his curiosity as he took in his surroundings. Somehow, it felt like only friendly interest, not nosy prying, but Athos couldn’t help but fear he would fall short in some way.

The last time Porthos had been in Athos’s apartment he had been a little preoccupied, what with the bleeding stranger to deal with, but now he caught sight of the bookcase that ran the length of one wall and must have recalled Athos confessing to being a writer for he immediately started examining its contents.

It didn’t take him long to arrive at the correct assumption.

“You’re Olivier de la Fère?”

“For my sins.”

Porthos frowned. “You said your name is Athos.” Confused rather than accusatory.

“It is. I am also Olivier de la Fère.”

His eyes widened in surprise, apparently unconcerned by Athos’s vague explanation. “But you’re huge! Your books are always bestsellers.”

Athos chose to be amused by Porthos’s shock when he could easily have taken it as an insult. He seemed genuinely impressed. “So I’m told.”

“I read one, not long ago…” Porthos scanned the row of titles, stopping when he reached the one he recognised. Pulling it free, he turned it over in his hands, handling it with reverent care as if being in the same room as its author afforded it some kind of mystical aura. He nodded to himself, humming in recollection as he skimmed the blurb.

“What did you think?” And, for some reason, Athos honestly cared about the response.

“It was—” a pause as Porthos sought a suitable description— “kinda dark.” He looked suddenly guilty, quickly adding, “Good, though.” He hitched one shoulder in a contrite shrug, an apology for his rather inadequate review. “P’rhaps you should write a romance next. Maybe that’ll earn you a few fans who ain’t crazy.”

“They say one should stick to writing what one knows.”

Porthos’s expression wavered worryingly close to pity as the implications of that statement sunk in. But then he grinned, determined not to let Athos wallow.

“You could include a handsome stranger riding to the rescue. I believe you’ve had first-hand experience of that.”

It was getting increasingly more difficult to resist smiling. “My memory remains a little hazy.”

“I’m not surprised.” Porthos grimaced at his own recollection, still so fresh, but that bright grin was soon creeping back. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory.”

There was a suggestion in those dark eyes, Athos was sure of it, but he made himself appear unmoved, the arching of an eyebrow the only change in his expression. “I don’t intend on getting stabbed again.”

“I should hope not.” That smile became playfully devious. “I was thinking more the part where you swooned in my arms.”

Athos rolled his eyes. “I can assure you I did not swoon.”

“I beg to differ.”

Athos made the mistake of meeting Porthos’s gaze, getting caught out by that infectious smile, and all at once he knew he was lost. A moment of panic as he scrambled for purchase on ground that had just begun to feel stable again, right up until the moment Porthos had crashed into his life.

Pushing to his feet, he barely noticed the tug of his stitches, remembering the last time he had tried to shepherd someone out of his flat. Somehow, a loon with a knife seemed a far simpler predicament.

Uncertain whether he’d been planning to opt for fight or flight, Athos did neither. Choosing to take that as a positive sign, Porthos risked a step forward. Then, encouraged by the lack of a retreat, he took another.

It was Porthos’s fingers brushing his cheek that shocked Athos back into action. He drew a steadying breath, swallowed hard, but couldn’t quite bring himself to back away.

“I’m not much of a catch, Porthos.” It was hard not to let his conviction waver, subject as he was to an intense gaze full of warmth and compassion. And the spark of desire he refused to acknowledge flickering to life in his own belly. “I drink too much, have an aversion to company, possess an inexplicable attraction to crazy people, and have enough skeletons in my closet to populate an entire cemetery.”

Porthos shrugged, unconcerned. “Nobody’s perfect.” He was suddenly close. Very close. “Me, I like a gamble.”

Athos opened his mouth, intending to say something about the terrible odds presented by this particular situation, the chances of everything going wrong, but before he could begin Porthos was kissing him and he promptly forgot every single reason why doing so was a bad idea.

When they finally parted, neither moved away, Athos willing his heart to stop pounding and Porthos smiling fondly at the stunned expression on his face. A wordless question and response passed between them, and the matter was settled.

Perhaps it _had_ been a mistake to close himself off for so long.

Porthos’s palm skimmed down Athos’s side, deftly avoiding his healing wound, to curve around his waist, and Athos stepped into his embrace. A memory flashed, vivid and real, of the last time Porthos had held him in his arms, but rather than the pain and fear one might have expected, he felt only security. Saftey.

Misinterpreting his hesitation, Porthos paused, all warm brown eyes and soft smile, and brushed aside a lock of Athos’s hair in a tender gesture that also felt soothingly familiar.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

Athos huffed a laugh and watched surprised delight bloom on Porthos’s features, a look that intensified, _darkened_ , as Athos dragged him toward the bedroom with a smirk.

“Not _too_ gentle, I hope.”

* * * *

Later, Athos revelled in the ache that suffused his body. It was a _good_ ache, one he welcomed and suffered willingly.

One he’d missed.

Movement beside him, weight shifting on the mattress, and he opened his eyes to find Porthos propped up on an elbow, unashamed in his nakedness and looking as pleasantly sated as Athos felt.

Athos smiled up at him. He’s missed this, too. Enjoying company, sharing his time, his life, _himself_ , with someone who had no agenda beyond making him happy. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing to let someone in.

Just to convince himself, he pulled Porthos down for a languid kiss.

Fingers playing through the hair on Athos’s chest, Porthos looked thoughtfully down at him when they eventually, reluctantly, parted.

“So, are you gonna put this in your next book?”

“No.” Athos turned into Porthos, fitting their bodies together once again. “I don’t want to share this with anyone but you.”

And, as sappy as that sounded, Porthos found no reason to argue.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from David Bowie's 'Lazarus'.


End file.
